


Stronger

by TidalDragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Community: HPFT, Dark, Gen, Origin Story, Psychological Torture, Torture, Transformation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:38:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TidalDragon/pseuds/TidalDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Farrell Grimley had always liked kids.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stronger

“Walk carefully, Liam!” a rich, adult voice rang out as the class of tiny witches and wizards scampered excitedly through the highland meadow.  
  
  
“Yes, Mr. Grimley…” the child called back reluctantly.  
  
  
Farrell chuckled to himself as he spared a glance upward. The sun shone down brightly from its three o’clock perch, standing out in sharp relief against the clear, blue sky. There was nary a cloud in sight. As the rays of light continued to warm him, he wondered how cold it might get tonight. Would the children really need their cloaks in such weather? The brown-haired wizard closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. This was beyond the wildest dreams he’d had back at Hogwarts.  
  
  
A competent student, Farrell had never pretended to aspire to the things that lured so many of his classmates. Whether it was the stability and promise of potential power inherent in the right Ministry job or the fame and fortune one could win on the Quidditch pitch, it never interested him. Truthfully he never really had the skill required for the former. And the latter? Sport was all well and good, and he’d enjoyed his time as a Beater for Hufflepuff, but he took pleasure from playing the game with his teammates more so than the thrill of victory or individual achievements.  
  
  
Yes, from the beginning he’d been cut from a different cloth, and Farrell thought a brighter one. His peers seemed not to understand the professors that taught them, suggesting ridiculously that the teachers enjoyed watching them fail. They didn’t see what he did. The curl of a smile that tugged at Dumbledore’s lips when someone who was struggling finally mastered a skill. The twinkle in the eye of old Broughton when a potion was brewed with unexpected excellence. Those jobs had been his first dreams, but he quickly discovered he lacked the aptitude for them. A lesser wizard would’ve been deterred from teaching; after all, if you couldn’t have Hogwarts then a man was out of place.  
  
  
“Liam! Honestly, how many times–“  
  
  
“Sorry, Mrs. Somerfield…”  
  
  
Farrell chuckled. It was a challenge for anyone to constrain the boundless energy of Liam Whitacre. The boy was destined to do something active one day – that much was certain.  
  
  
Ahead he could spot his savior, Angelica Somerfield walking backward, effortlessly despite the slope, counting the children yet again to ensure none had strayed out of sight. Her honey blonde hair was finally beginning to streak with grey, but in this light and the open air, it was easy to make out the signs that in her youth she’d been an incomparable beauty. When he’d graduated he’d applied for dozens of day school jobs. The matrons had swiftly rejected him the moment they discovered he wasn’t the daughter of some progressive parents paying homage to some lost part of their family lineage. But Angelica had been different. She’d listened. And she’d seen beyond his exterior to the soul that lied beneath. He remembered what she’d said.  
  
  
 _Never have I seen such caring in the eyes of a man._  
  
  
But alas, the reverie had him lagging behind now. His tall, sturdy frame allowed him to make up the distance quickly as they neared the summit, though he chose his path carefully. As he’d warned the boys before the set out, a man who is truly one with nature never leaves a trace of where he’s trod.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
By evening the children had nearly exhausted the Somerfield bag of tricks. Parents sent their little witches and wizards with Angelica and Farrell to witness for themselves magic at work in a world outside the home. From manufacturing rapid growth in a flower or a sapling to fashioning a ready shelter by starting with simple strands of grass, these young ones would see it all in hopes that the spirit of magic that dwelled within them would carry on burning brightly until they reached Hogwarts. Though much of their upbringing necessarily involved caution, secrecy, and restraint, the overnight camping trip assured them that witches and wizards still had the freedom to be, even in an increasingly muggle world.  
  
  
Alas, chaperoning a herd of wandless wonders was not without its burdens. Farrell wiped his brow after constructing the interior of the final tent. Premade tents from a manufacturer were much easier than the do-it-yourself process he and Angelica used, but their small business could not afford such expense. He sighed contentedly. Besides, this way the children could see how such objects were actually made. Farrell didn’t fancy himself an artisan of any kind, but they always seemed awed by the basics he was capable of.  
  
  
“Mr. Grimley…” a small voice said tentatively, poking his thigh, “Which tent is the bathroom?”  
  
  
He smiled and suppressed a laugh.  
  
  
“This way, Maggie,” he encouraged, taking the young girl by the hand gently and leading her away.  
  
  
“But _that’s_ Mrs. Somerfield’s tent!” the girl protested.  
  
  
As if on cue, Angelica emerged with a motherly smile. “That it is child. But we can _hardly_ have _boys_ with us in now can we? What would your mother say?”  
  
  
“Ewww!” Maggie said, sticking her tongue out and scrunching up her face.  
  
  
“Eww, indeed,” Angelica laughed, winking at Farrell as she took over hand-holding duties. “Let’s go dear. We’ll give you the tour again when we’re done since you seem to have already forgotten.”  
  
  
Farrell turned around and was happily confronted with the open space they’d left on their flank. From the summit where they’d set up camp it was easy to see the vastness before them. Down the slope, fireflies flickered in the diminishing light, dancing amidst the shadowy shapes of tall flowers jutting out from the rocks and sparse patches of grass. Turning his gaze upward, he could see the moon becoming visible just above the horizon. Higher still, stars twinkled brightly. The young man snorted and shook his head. His next task would almost be a shame. Firelight would diminish the number of stars that stood out on that darkening canvas.  
  
  
Suddenly small footfalls alerted him to the presence of campers. Casting a careful glance over his shoulder he saw three of them – two boys and girl – one of whom was wringing his hands nervously as the others simply waited wide-eyed to be acknowledged. Farrell turned finally, squatting down to their level.  
  
  
“And what can I do for the three of you?”  
  
  
He recognized the faces now. The girl was Eleanor Fletchley, one of the few ten year-olds who had returned for the third summer running. The boy closest to her was this year’s other bundle of energy Flynn Gallagher. And their nervous companion was Samuel Berry, a first-year adventurer born to a couple that had been several years ahead of Farrell at Hogwarts.  
  
  
“When are we going to start the fire?” Eleanor asked matter-of-factly.  
  
  
“Well…I was just about to begin–“  
  
  
“Where?” came the chorus.  
  
  
“Right here,” Farrell said enthusiastically, pointing to the ground in front of him. Then he allowed his face to sink into a frown. “The trouble is, I forgot where I put all the wood I need to build it. Do you think you can help me find it?”  
  
  
“It’s probably by your tent like last year silly,” the young witch remarked, hands on her hips.  
  
  
Farrell nodded. Someone was picking up another kind of magic at home. He shook his hand. A female with hands on her hips would always mean _listen_.  
  
  
“Excellent point, Ellie! But where might I find the kindling?”  
  
  
Finally, Samuel piped up. “M-my dad keeps his in h-his backpack when he takes me camping…”  
  
  
Farrell scratched his chin. “Hmm. That does sound like a safe place. I didn’t know your dad took you camping.”  
  
  
“Yeah!” the boy said, suddenly emboldened. “All the time. He’s a muggle though so it’s kind of different. I…I’ve never been without him before.”  
  
  
“Well, come on,” Farrell encouraged, “I think you’re right about where I put that kindling. If you can help me dig it out I’ll show you how _wizards_ make a campfire!”  
  
  
“Cool!” Samuel and Flynn yelped while Ellie rolled her eyes.  
  
  
With his hands on the boys’ shoulders and Ellie walking straight in front of him, they headed back toward his tent to get everything they needed.  
  
  
Though he had done it dozens of times before, Farrell felt excited again all of a sudden. Most of the city-dwelling kids would never have seen this. He smiled. Lives were going to be changed tonight.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Farrell woke with a start. For as long as he could remember, he’d been a dreadfully light sleeper. Back during his days in the dormitories whispered conversations would keep him away for hours. Tonight however, it was different. Tonight, nature called.  
  
  
Tugging on yesterday’s trousers, he carefully pulled back the curtain of his tent and began the trek across the campsite to where the latrine had been erected. A fancy bit of magic the children didn’t need to know about he thought, making the empty bottom look like a normal toilet. Bet Professor Stanley, the Charms curmudgeon never imagined his discipline would be put to use that way by one of his students.  
  
  
Finished, Farrell emerged and took in the night sky once more. The moon had reached its zenith and a gentle breeze teased the rogue ends of hair that had crept down to the nape of his neck. He shook his head. Ought to pay it a bit more attention.  
  
  
Out of nowhere a sound burst forth that made all his hair stand on end. A piercing howl rang out through the blackness. Immediately, Farrell reached for his wand, cursing himself for foolishly leaving it back near his cot. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Calm. Cool. Yes. All was tranquil.  
  
  
But again it came, closer now, clearly closer. And there was…another? His pulse was pounding in his ears as he thought he heard a snarl and the scrabbling of claws on the rocks below. Each sound increased his fear and he found himself nearly frozen as it all seemed to come together in a chilling crescendo. Howls. Breaking. Scrabbling. Scratching. Noises entirely indescribable but definitively inhuman. One thought penetrated the fog. _The children._  
  
  
Urging his body into motion, he moved as quickly and quietly as he could manage to Angelica’s tent. He roughly shook her and as her eyes shot open he simply put a finger to his lips. The howls rang out again, nearer now and nearer to one another. The message flashed in his eyes. _Werewolves._  
  
  
Angelica moved too now, but with none of his care. She grabbed her wand and screamed wildly for the children to hurry.  
  
  
“Hurry! All of you! Hurry! At once!”  
  
  
Hurry for what? The end? There was no way they could resist. Not with _one_ wand. He stormed outside to a campsite flooded with tears and screams. It couldn’t end like this.  
  
  
Farrell burst into tents rounding up every tiny hand and tear-streaked face. He urged them quickly.  
  
  
“Quickly! To Mrs. Somerfield’s tent! You’ll be safe,” he promised as his soft eyes met Ellie’s. “You’ll be safe.”  
  
  
The last tent was Samuel Berry’s. Clear across camp and next to his. He grabbed the boy and pushed him into the moonlight.  
  
  
“Now!” Farrell screamed.  
  
  
The growls were too close now. The howls no longer haunted them. Instead he heard breath.  
  
  
The boy.  
  
  
Alone.  
  
  
He’d never make it.  
  
  
With a crack he heard Angelica disapparate with the others.  
  
  
A lantern left burning when the terrified boy had first woken illuminated the first shadow of the beast.  
  
  
There was only one hope now.  
  
  
Farrell dove into his tent, grabbing his wand and scrambling across the rocky soil to the ash-covered place where the fire had been.  
  
  
His knee had been scraped. Probably bleeding. _But the boy_ , his mind screamed. Bloody knees be damned.  
  
  
Before him was Samuel and as the first monster leapt, Farrell blasted it back with a curse. The second met the same fate, but there were too many. As the third leapt for the child, Farrell flung his body between them. Claws shredded his sides and teeth tore at his shoulder.  
  
  
The boy shrieked as another slashed his leg just as Farrell blasted it away.  
  
  
“Give me your hand!” he screamed through the pain. “Give me your hand!”  
  
  
He felt a small palm in his own and held tight. But the monster was still on him.  
  
  
Another was tearing at his boot.  
  
  
It was pulling them apart. He had to be _stronger_.  
  
  
Breath was on his neck.  
  
  
“ _Diffindo_!” he screamed in agony, severing the creature’s head.  
  
  
Things went red. _All_ red.  
  
  
He brutally kicked the other beast in the face. It was off him!  
  
  
For a moment he felt just one thing.  
  
  
One little hand in his big one.  
  
  
And with a crack, they were gone.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Farrell awoke in a dingy room. He felt stretched, unnaturally so. He blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the odd light. Blue almost, but somehow…somehow like fire light. Was this heaven?  
  
  
As he became more aware, the pain started to set in. Was it hell? Some place in between? His great uncle had been a religious man. One day he’d told Farrell of a place where sinners were cleansed with fire before going on to God. _We’re all sinners, m’boy. Each and every one._  
  
  
Could you move there? Farrell couldn’t. There was a pressure toward the end of each limb. And his neck. He couldn’t even turn his head. What kind of God would allow _this_? He’d saved them. Saved the children. Was it worth nothing? He tried harder, but was rewarded only with a slight shaking and the clink of metal on metal.  
  
  
Then, a voice.  
  
  
“I see you are with us once again.”  
  
  
A bearded man with hair as black as night stepped out of the shadows to stand before him.  
  
  
“A-a-are th-they?” Farrell croaked.  
  
  
“Yes!” the man said, his eyes brightening, “Yes, of course! Their parents are all so grateful. None more so I think than one Samuel Berry’s. Luckily he was merely clawed…”  
  
  
The man trailed off, scratching his beard thoughtfully.  
  
  
“It won’t heal I’m afraid. Not ever. But you’d be surprised what people can look past if one is truly rich enough beneath the surface.”  
  
  
Farrell stared into the man’s dark eyes and felt them staring back, almost mournfully, into his own soul.  
  
  
“You on the other hand…not so lucky.”  
  
  
That was it then. He’d been bitten. Farrell knew from his last year of instruction in Defense Against the Dark Arts what was done with _them_.  
  
  
“You’re scared. It’s natural. But don’t worry my friend,” the man said, gently stroking Farrell’s leg, “I wouldn’t let _you_ suffer that fate. Your sacrifice is everywhere. In the streets. In the papers.”  
  
  
Farrell could scarcely imagine. Him? Famous?  
  
  
“Yes, yes…” the man chuckled, nodding repeatedly as he allowed himself a tight-lipped smile. “Order of Merlin! Third Class! Though…posthumously of course…”  
  
  
“P-pos–“  
  
  
“It really is tragic, but I think for the best. It will be etched forever in all their memories. A hero’s death is easier on the living. He’s not so much trouble when he never needs saving himself.”  
  
  
“B-but y-you,” Farrell coughed, “y-you said–“  
  
  
“I did!” the man exclaimed. “And it’s a promise I intend to keep! It’s just that…well, with this Scamander fellow about, lobbying for right for non-humans you’d make too easy a poster boy.”  
  
  
“I’m alive!”  
  
  
“Most of the time. When you’re not consumed with bloodlust. Those things that attacked you…do you _truly_ believe _they’re_ human?”  
  
  
Farrell stiffened his jaw and glared.  
  
  
“No. Of course not. And now you’re one of them.”  
  
  
The man reached for a cigarette and stuck it between his teeth, turning the tip of his wand white hot to light it. He took a long drag and exhaled slowly as he began to regard Farrell clinically, ogling him from every angle.  
  
  
“You should be thanking me.”  
  
  
“Thank–“ he paused, “ _Thanking you_?”  
  
  
“Well,” the man laughed, “Unless you’d rather be dead…”  
  
  
“Why aren’t I?”  
  
  
The man waved the cigarette, pointing it at Farrell and squinting at him above a pair of skinny glasses.  
  
  
“Because I’m going to give you a life! You’ll be my crown jewel! When I finally perfect the potion that saves you from yourself, you’ll be free. I was nearly there with the last one. Nearly there. But we developed a…difference of opinion. He couldn’t see that what we were doing – everything it demanded of us – was for a higher purpose.”  
  
  
“What did–“  
  
  
“What did it demand?” the man asked harshly. “Pain! Isolation! The agony of sleepless nights!”  
  
  
Farrell yanked on his chains again.  
  
  
“Stop it!” the man barked. “You…your spirit is different. I believe in you. Yes…you’d do it. Suffer it. And all willingly. You’re not so selfish as him.”  
  
  
The man extinguished his cigarette on the stone floor beneath his shoe.  
  
  
“Think of it, Mr. Grimley. What is the _one thing_ you’d want to do if you were dubbed human again?”  
  
  
“To…to h-help them again. To help children.”  
  
  
“To help children,” the man repeated, allowing the words to somehow echo around them. “ _I_ can give you that Mr. Grimley. And all I ask in return is your unqualified consent.”  
  
  
Farrell regarded him warily. But what choice did he have really?  
  
  
He nodded.  
  
  
With a flick of the man’s wand, he was no longer chained and another arrested his fall. Shakily, he walked to the table over which the man stood. There were dozens of small cauldrons. Vial after vial of strange ingredients.  
  
  
“This,” the man said, gesturing grandly, “is where the magic happens. _This_ is where I make you whole again.”  
  


* * *

  
  
  
He was alone again. He was always alone. No one but that damned Greek “Healer” Argyris. That bastard was only present for the transformations. His presence was the only way for Farrell to count the days in his stone prison. He was locked away – unshackled and provided with books, furniture, and sustenance – but locked away nevertheless. The Ministry’s dirty secret.  
  
  
Argyris’s hollow encouragement was the only knife he faced that rivalled the loneliness. For the first year, he had swallowed them like sweet honey, but that was many moons ago and the taste had long since soured. He simply ignored most of what the wizard said anymore, but there were moments he broke through. Moments that were such raw displays of the man’s insensitivity and boundless hubris that Farrell could barely stomach them.  
  
  
But tonight that would all change. Tonight was another chance. Another potion.  
  
  
A voice shouted inside him.  
  
  
 _It’s a lie._  
  
  
“It’s not a lie,” he said to the emptiness. “It’s hope.”  
  
  
 _His hope._  
  
  
“My hope,” he reiterated.  
  
  
Without his hope what was there? Pain? But he was used to that. Without his hope there was nothing. Without his hope he was the wolf. The wolf had no past and no future. The wolf felt none of his fears, none of his disgusting self-loathing. The wolf simply was.  
  
  
He returned to the book he had been reading – _Divine Symbology: Unmasking the Messages in the Images Around Us_. Typical tripe. But it was long and more importantly simple. Transformation days despised analysis and critical thought. They despised learning. What he read today would be purged tomorrow anyway by the memory modifying ingredients Argyris always included in his efforts.  
  
  
Farrell had pressed him on this once – wouldn’t retaining memory help retain control? Control was everything. He could conceal himself while he appeared monstrous if only he could think. Argyris had humiliated him the next day with a recitation of his marks. The point had never been raised again.  
  
  
So he read on, eyes glazed over until it was time for dinner. Today was a steak at least. Rare.  
  
  
Returning from his meal he opened his book once more. Mostly repeats of images from before. Still, somehow he wasn’t even halfway done. Next month he would start with this in the morning. He flipped the page again. There, printed in black on the old parchment was an image of the largest wolf he had ever seen. But what was it doing here? It was alphabetical, shouldn’t it…he noticed the italics. It was different. It was special.  
  
  
 _Fenrir_. It carried an air of disquieting menace, but at the same time, it somehow rolled off the tongue.  
  
  
 _Fenrir_. Powerful beyond measure, but tricked by the Gods.  
  
  
 _Fenrir_. Locked away in a prison beneath the ground.  
  
  
 _Fenrir_. Revenge – at a cost.  
  
  
 _Fenrir_. The wolf.  
  
  
The knock came on his door as he knew it would.  
  
  
“Farrell,” Argyris said, “are you ready?”  
  
  
Farrell nodded, walking to the small room where he would be safely secured in chains should everything end as it always did – in failure. He shut the door behind himself. He stared at the stone walls. They were so like the highland rocks on that stony summit. He heard Argyris turn the lock and braced himself. The enchanted chains took on a life of their own, clicking swiftly into place. He could not escape.  
  
  
The voice raced unbidden to his mind.  
  
  
 _Just like Fenrir._  
  
  
He shook it away.  
  
  
 _They tricked you…_  
  
  
“I need this…” he groaned.  
  
  
 _They_ all _tricked you…_  
  
  
“No,” he hissed. “Argyris.”  
  
  
 _No. All of them. They could keep you anywhere, but they keep you here._  
  
  
“The others think I’m dead.”  
  
  
 _The boy must know._  
  
  
“Only what he’s told.”  
  
  
 _The boy_ must _know._  
  
  
How couldn’t he? They’d apparated somewhere. He’d _saved_ him.  
  
  
 _But you were just another monster._  
  
  
“I saved them all.”  
  
  
 _Monsters don’t save children._  
  
  
“I wasn’t…I’m _not_ –“  
  
  
“Is everything alright in there?” Argyris asked dully over the sound of the phonograph he always brought with him. “I thought I heard talking.”  
  
  
The trembling started in his back. He cried out. “I-it’s st-starting.”  
  
  
The music just got louder.  
  
  
He screamed as his bones contorted awfully. Failure. This was the point of no return.  
  
  
But it was different this time. He could…but…a sort of fog. He…remembered…spotty.  
  
  
All red.  
  
  
 _This is where I make you whole again._  
  
  
Chains.  
  
  
 _Fenrir._  
  
  
Locked in a prison.  
  
  
 _They tricked you._  
  
  
Hope.  
  
  
 _It’s a lie._  
  
  
Memory…control was everything.  
  
  
 _You should be thanking me._  
  
  
He _saved_ them.  
  
  
 _Monsters don’t save children._  
  
  
Powerful beyond measure.  
  
  
 _Fenrir._  
  
  
The wolf.  
  
  
 _The wolf simply was._  
  
  
He pulled with all his might. A bracket loosened. A rusty link strained. _Clink._  
  
  
The wolf simply was stronger.  
  
  
 **A/N: This story is something very different from anything I’ve ever written in terms of the character, the style, the time frame – just everything really. I owe it all to Lisa/Ravenclaw333 for a spectacular challenge that I’m not sure I necessarily even really ended up capturing, but that really pushed me to explore Fenrir Greyback, a character I’m sure I’m not alone in having categorically abhorred.**  
  
 **  
I’ll admit I’ve taken a bit of license since we know Greyback was infected “early in life.” But with no specific dates available and the fact that wizards can live well past a hundred, I figured being a recent Hogwarts graduate qualified in the scheme of things. I also wanted to play with his name a bit, because as fitting as it is for him as a werewolf, I really never got the sense that anybody would name their child Fenrir, which is an reference to Norse mythology some of which I’ve included (very vaguely) in the piece. Thus I gave him a birth name that had the same initials – Farrell (which means man of valor – in reference to him saving the children) Grimley (indicative of how that identity dies – “grimly” if you’ll excuse the pun) – and had him lose that identity to Fenrir Greyback through a combination of his condition and the cumulative psychological effects of his trauma, “treatment”, and isolation.**  
  
 **  
In sum, I don’t even really know what to make of this story honestly without any feedback, but hopefully it gives some food for thought on who Greyback could’ve been before the change and why he changed in the end and wound up targeting children.**


End file.
